


and suddenly, flames everywhere

by sweetlyinfinite



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, good luck i guess, haha idk, i always get stuck here, its happy if you let it be, reccurring amnseia, theres a happy beginning though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:04:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetlyinfinite/pseuds/sweetlyinfinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friday the 31st of December, 2010, and Louis finds himself at a New Year’s Eve party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and suddenly, flames everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> so, im in love with richard siken, and i advise you look at his work because he's fucking brilliant. the title is taken from his work 'litany in which certain things are crossed out' and within my story ive taken the first verse of 'little beast' and separated it. 
> 
> any mistakes are my own, and i'd like to thank joy because without you or james this wouldn't have been possible 
> 
> bless xx

Friday the 31st of December, 2010, and Louis finds himself at a New Year’s Eve party. He’s at Anne’s house, Anne being the very best friend of his mother, with only his family, Anne’s family, the neighbours Keith and Claire with their 20 year old daughter, and a work friend of Robin’s named Dan.

He could be at a different, much louder, exhilarating party getting hammered with Stan, but he thinks it’s quite a lot nicer to be here.

Anne’s dragged out the stereo and an old Beatles CD, had done so after dinner. The sky has grown darker quickly under the guise of winter, and is lit up with pretty stars, sparkling like diamonds against a navy blue velvet case in the shop window, but this is real and similes are not. No snow litters the ground due to a series of unusually warm days, melting the ground and drying it right up, though the air is certainly chilly; everyone is either wearing their coats or big, thick sweaters.

He, personally, is wearing one of his mum’s sweaters, mainly a plum colour though there are different shades of plum, if that makes any sense. Louis doesn’t even know if he should call it plum. There’s a dark grey beanie atop his head, his fringe smoothed to the side, and his black frame glasses are on.

Louis is standing by a fire in a large metal barrel, a fire that is currently fuelled by dead leaves which his sisters are collecting. There is a thick log over the barrel that is burning steadily, though without the leaves it would burn out. A lady, the neighbour Claire, is standing a metre away from him but just as close to the fire, saying encouraging things to all of his sisters when they bring another armful of dead leaves forward.

Louis thinks about her, Claire, because Jay said she moved here from Mullingar to be with her husband, and he cheated on her with a woman he met on those dirty chat websites, and then cheated again and again with the same woman purely because she gave him weed after they fucked. Claire, who told Jay, knows this because he told her when he confessed, when he broke down in tears and clutched helplessly at his wife’s legs from his position on his knees on the soft carpet of their bedroom.

“Good on you, darling, keep going; you’re doing brilliantly.”

Louis blinks up at Claire from the warm gaze of the fire, and then he flicks his eyes to the eldest of his younger sisters, Lottie. She’s just dumped a small handful of leaves into the barrel, the small amount probably enough to make her upset usually, but she’s grinning over at Claire before giggling and skipping back to get more. Claire is telling his sisters’ they’re good and great and brilliant in ways Louis thinks Jay forgets to, sometimes.

A boy catches his eye, as he’s been doing the entire afternoon and night. It’s Harry, Anne’s son, and the last time Louis saw him Harry was thirteen. It’s quite weird, actually, because before then they had seen each other at least twice a week due to Jay and Anne’s friendship, though Louis had always considered the three year age difference to mean something and Harry had just respected Louis’ space (maybe not when they were five and seven because Harry had grabby hands and specialised in being in someone’s space, but Louis faked sick that year a lot). So they hadn’t ever really known each other, it was more knowing _of_ each other.

The thing is Harry is so different from when he was thirteen that it’s insane, almost. He still has baby fat clinging to his cheeks but less so, and that’s about it. There are unruly, tight curls in place of the weird short cut Louis had last seen, he’s grown taller and he looks around Louis’ height, which. Unfair. (Well, it would be unfair but Louis keeps thinking it would be the perfect height for them to kiss, so.) Harry’s jaw is more defined and his lips seem to have grown a darker shade of pink, his eyes are lighter (it could just be the fire and the stars but Louis doesn’t care) and his hands seem to have stretched.

Also, he appears to have acquired some sense of fashion, because he’s ditched the blue striped shirts and grey cardigans (not that Louis doesn’t love a good cardigan and striped shirt) in favour of a jumper, a pretty maroon shade. Louis looks down at the oversized purple jumper of his mums and wonders if he can really say anything. He also wonders if they’d match, standing next to each other.

Louis alternates between stealing glances (brilliant glances) of Harry and watching his four younger sisters’ flit about Anne’s yard gathering dead leaves. Phoebe trips over Daisy in her haste to get to the biggest pile of leaves, resulting in her and her sister being tangled atop the pile. Harry tips his head back to look at the stars, revealing his pale, pretty neck, a smile resting lightly on his lips. Lottie throws a leaf at Fizzy, who retorts by throwing a plastic car back, and the car goes sailing past either of them to land near Louis’ feet. Both girls laugh and apologise to Louis, and then they're back to collecting leaves.

A man strolls away from Robin and Dan and towards Louis, and Louis internally freaks because _what if he’s going to kidnap me and keep me forever fuck please don’t please_ , so when the man passes him to step by his wife, Louis is flooded with relief. The guy looks creepy, okay, so. What _ever_ , it doesn’t even matter. The man is Claire’s husband Keith and that is it.

It takes Louis a moment to remember this man is the one that slept with another woman while his wife was at home with their children, and he’s filled with distaste now as he watches Claire thread her arm around his waist and push her face into his neck to whisper something that makes him smile, their faces illuminated by the fire. He doesn’t deserve to smile, he doesn’t deserve Claire because she’s so kind and caring, and it’s completely heartbreaking to think of such a sweet person being betrayed by someone they thought they’d love forever.

(A bit like Louis’ own parents’ divorce situation.)

Louis looks at the man’s face, and their eyes meet and Keith seems to know he doesn’t deserve this, her. Louis lifts his face and it becomes apparent to him that he was frowning with furrowed eyebrows, and that isn't good if he’s not going to be a wrinkly old person. He smooths his features, offers Keith a polite smile and turns his gaze back to the flames.

Because it’s winter there are no mosquitos, something Louis is eternally grateful for. He gets lost in thoughts of his father, in his head making up images of Keith typing to women who aren’t his wife and asking for nudes, pictures of their very most private parts in return after he sends a requested picture of his small dick (Louis thinks that all cheaters have small dicks, though he knows they’re probably of average size at least if they manage to sleep around), the room changing to one where his father is in front of the family computer doing almost the same thing, except there is talk of slamming into walls and fucking so hard and—well. Yeah.

Louis doesn’t know if his father actually cheated on Jay while they were married, but he knows he slept with another woman while they were separated, an act that cemented the divorce. Louis tells people he cheated, regardless.

“Keith!” Claire laughs, swatting his chest. “Darling that was the best joke you’ve ever told.”

Keith is shrugging with a grin on his face, and Louis smiles too, lets a small laugh drip from his mouth and colour the air. Keith removes himself from his wife, says something Louis doesn’t care to hear but he keeps the smile and nods, and then Keith is going back to the outdoor table Jay and Anne are sat at, across from Gemma and Keith and Claire’s twenty year old daughter. Louis doesn’t know her name, doesn’t ask.

Claire smiles over at Louis. “Doll, step closer and put out your hands to keep them warm, yeah? Don’t want your hands freezing because your pockets aren’t warm enough.”

Louis smiles, a real smile this time. He rubs his hands together in front of the fire. “Thanks,” he mumbles, a little distracted by the new warmth flooding his veins, “thank you, Claire.”

Then Fizzy is there, right there, with the biggest bloody armful of leaves. Louis pulls his hands back, ignoring the cool air, and then Fizz just chucks them. She heaves her arms up and throws the leaves recklessly in the general direction of the barrel, and most of them land on the other side. Only a few actually land in the fire.

Louis rolls his eyes but Claire is saying, “Very good, doll. That was brilliant, a lot of leaves for a little girl to carry,” and her eyes flick to Louis and she asks quietly, “What’s this one’s name?” and Louis tells her and Claire continues with, “Good girl, Fizz.”

Fizzy grins proudly at Claire and Louis before running back to her sisters without even a goodbye.

Claire turns back to Louis with a glint in her blue eyes, blue like his own, and her accent is thicker when she speaks. “So, Louis, any girls you’re interested in? You’re a teenager; there must be some girl who’s caught your attention at school or something.”

Louis wrinkles his nose, states immediately, “I don’t like girls.”

Claire laughs at Louis’ boldness, at his ability to produce to statement without fear or worry. It’s a good thing, it is. “Any boys then, love?” He laughs, shakes his head, a smile on his face, and Claire rolls her eyes, “Look at you! You’re blushing ruby red, look at your cheeks! You know what’s up, don’t you doll? Have you got a boyfriend then?”

No, he doesn’t have a boyfriend and okay, yeah, maybe his cheeks are warm, but that doesn’t mean his heart beats that bit faster when his eyes land on Harry’s figure, doesn’t mean his fingertips itch to touch his hair, his face, his arms, all of him, doesn’t mean—

Oh. Maybe it does.

Claire lets it go, doesn’t press for information further, just smiles slightly smugly.

There’s an arm around his waist, then, a warm body next to his. Louis turns his head and it’s Gemma. Gemma smells like wine and cinnamon, smiling brightly across from him. Louis grins back because she’s a little bit tipsy and that’s cool, and Gemma leans in close to his ear. Her breath skims over his cheek, warm puffs of air scented of red wine Louis knows his mum brought.

“D’you know, Lou, that Harry likes you, like, just, like, a lot. He had, uh, one of those… eh; he had a sex dream about you, Louis, couldn’t stop saying your name. Was gross as. ‘S that was it’s called? A sex dream? Whatever, he had a dream about you and him having _intercourse_.”

Louis’ eyes widen like, big spheres, or whatever, and he laughs it off, also laughs at her emphasis and lowering of her voice on the last word. “Gem, you’re terrible at keeping secrets.”

Gemma rolls her eyes, leans in impossibly closer. “Look, Lou, if it was supposed to be a secret Harry wouldn’t have shouted your name so loud.”

He laughs again against the sharp crackle of burning leaves and twigs, eyes scanning the area until they land on Harry. Harry is looking at him too, and there’s that stupidly odd sexual tension that there is between all teenagers, like when the guy at the supermarket scans your groceries or when the girl at the café takes your order. Harry smiles, sort of, before blushing and glancing away. He treads over to take a seat around the large table, taking out his phone and staring at it instead.

Gemma drops a kiss to Louis’ cheek a little close to his mouth, causing Louis to wrinkle his nose and furrow his eyebrows. As she goes to walk away he grabs her arm, and Gemma grumbles a little but lets Louis pull her close and hug her. They’re the same height, so it’s good.

“One day, Gems,” Louis whispers, almost like a secret, “we’ll be siblings, just wait. I’ll be able to call you my sister, and I’ll remember this forever.”

Gemma grins like there’s no tomorrow and she slaps his arse as she pulls away. “Talk to my brother then you twit or I’ll have to be someone else’s sister and the only thing you’ll have to remember is how you let the opportunity go.” Then she pats his cheek and disappears inside her home.

Claire has gone and in her place is Anne with a wineglass near empty. Anne was watching the exchange between her daughter and Louis, and she offers him a smile. Louis thinks all of their family smiles the same, stretched wide and happy over lovely teeth, genuine.

“Hi, Louis,” she says softly, “I’ve not seen you around here in ages.”

And he hasn’t been, so he replies, “Anne, yeah, I know, I apologise. Been quite busy with work and before that school.”

She nods, raising the wine to her lips and finishing off the glass. “I understand that, love, Harry’s so busy between work and school that we barely see him anymore. Schools are too hard these days, really. Too much pressure to complete and succeed, I think.”

Then Anne holds out her glass, nodding her head toward the table. Louis smiles at her, rolling his eyes before he takes her glass and says, “You’re lucky you’re like a second mum to me or you’d have to get your own wine.” He listens to her laugh behind his back and lets his smile expand, just the smallest bit.

Louis’ clumsy, is the thing, at least he’s clumsy in unfamiliar territory and as mentioned before he hasn’t been here in _years_.

So, when he trips over his mum’s handbag and lands in Harry’s lap, it’s not like he can't be blamed, can he?

Except, Louis doesn’t move because he can’t, because he’s frozen in shock and dread and _oh my god this is Harry’s **lap**_.

He’s probably there for half a minute.

Then Harry coughs and Louis moves, he hastily scrambles back from his sprawled out position over Harry’s knees to a standing one, the empty wine glass still between his fingers. He’s blushing like a fucking tomato, not that Harry isn't, and his beanie has fallen off. Louis looks helplessly at Harry before bending over him again, and Jay starts to laugh gently to herself because her son has never looked like this before. Harry’s eyes are wide and he’s looking anywhere but Louis and it’s so awkward and when Louis rights himself once more Jay has moved next to Anne by the barrel and Anne is whispering something that makes Jay’s laughs a little louder. Louis thinks he hears _and he was just shouting Louis’ name by the end of it, let me tell you we were surprised you guys didn’t hear_.

Louis bites his lip and risks a glance at Harry, but Harry’s smiling softly and the red on his cheeks is blending with the flame behind Louis. Harry’s eyes sparkle. “Louis, right?”

And, okay, it’s a little funny, because both Gemma and Anne are saying that he had a dream about Louis consisting of thrashing and the name on his lips like wildfire, and here he is pretending that he doesn’t know exactly what Louis’ name is.

Regardless, Louis smiles back because he isn't going to act like a three year old when he’s nineteen. Well. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry, I'm really sorry, I just tripped on my mums bloody bag and, like, yeah, sorry,” Louis blurts out, much like a three year old babbling all the words they know, so the previous statement isn't really all that true.

It’s fine though, because Harry is still blushing; his crush did just fall into his lap, give him some credit.

After several quiet moments Louis puts out his hands for no particular reason then steps sideways, placing the glass on the table to pour Anne some more wine. Harry digs in his pocket for his phone again as it buzzes, and with a short nod Louis ducks away from the table and back over to his mother and Anne.

When he hands her the wine glass, Anne lets a laugh out of her mouth and Louis burns red again. Jay smirks at Louis and Louis frowns, saying indignantly, “You put your bag there on purpose!”

Jay shakes her head and Anne waves her hand, taking a sip of the red liquid. “No, Lou, I did.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “What? Why?”

“You and Harry keep looking at each other, that’s why. Anne wanted something to break the ice, so she put it there.”

“Mum! Really? You and Anne are—come on; like bloody children.”

The two women laugh at Louis and he shakes his head and grumbles to himself. After a few minutes of idle chatter they make their way back to the table to munch on crackers and fancy cheeses, and then Claire is back with a bottle of beer cradled between her palms.

“Saw you inside,” she says, a smirk painting her words, “when you fell over H. Surprised you didn’t stay there to be honest.”

Louis chokes as he watches Harry put his phone away and dawdle over to his sister to help them with their leaf adventures, or, like, whatever they’re doing. His smile is wide and the flush of his cheeks has faded and his eyes widen comically when Louis’ sisters grab his jumper to pull him down and begin to whisper something that looks like a very important secret. Louis gets a little lost looking at Harry and his sisters, kind of forgets he should reply to Claire when there’s Harry with dimples using a rake to gather clumps of dead leaves, mostly the ones the girls have dropped on the way to the fire.

Claire just laughs.

It only takes a short while before Claire is calling out, “Harry love, come ‘ere and keep dear Louis company, I’ve to check on the boys at home!” She’s referring to the two youngish sons she has next door, because she is the _neighbour_.

Louis gawks at her, and she passes him the bottle of beer she’s barely drank from. As she passes him she leans in close to his ear, lilts, “Don’t tattoo his name or anything, right, Louis? Just love him,” and then she walks through the doors of Harry’s house and is gone.

Harry stumbles over cautiously, and god, okay, it isn't like Louis to be such a blushing _fool_ , but his cheeks are on fire and he stutters out something about school, which is what Harry reduces him too; dumb things and flaming cheeks.

Apparently school is an okay topic because Harry has a lot to say, to complain about, to reminisce over while Louis nods happily and recounts some things from his school days, seeing as he’s no longer in school, hasn’t been for a few months or so. (He’s taking a gap year before going to Manchester; well at least that’s what he’s planned.)

Somehow the topic of Louis being in ‘If I Had You’ in 2006 comes up and Louis veers away from that very quickly; he doesn’t like that at all. Harry laughs easily as he moves to Louis in the school’s production of ‘Grease’ which Louis also shakes his head and scrunches his nose at.

Harry rolls his eyes and they move to television shows, which makes Harry say, “Oh, I, erm, I missed an audition for X Factor, like, a few months ago cause Mum was really sick.”

Louis’ eyes widen and they light up and he grins crookedly. “I missed one too!”

He only missed it because it was just after the official divorce, and Jay was feeling dreadful and worrying massively about how she was going to pay for electricity and water and the like, so she went to an accountant to help her, so Louis had to watch the girls, and everyone forgot about the entire thing.

“Oh, sick, that’s so cool. What song were you gonna sing? Sing it for me?”

Louis blanches, wincing a little and shaking his head, because there’s a reason he ‘forgot’ to go to the audition (he knew he wouldn’t get through). Harry sighs, biting his lip, and then he says, “Fine. What if I sing what I was going to; will you sing then?”

Louis says, “Fine,” a little too snappy then he’d have liked, but then he oozes out sweet and Harry smiles.

Harry opens his mouth and sings, hushed and lovely, for just Louis, a snippet of the song ‘Isn’t She Lovely’. He’s bloody brilliant, god, Louis wants to find a stage to put him on and throw a microphone into his hands and make him sing forever. When he’s done Louis doesn’t want to sing anymore because, “God, Haz, you’re unbelievable, I can't believe you missed the auditions. You would’ve killed it, you’d be a popstar, you should’ve gone anyway.”

Frowning, Harry asks, “Aren’t you going to sing now?”

So Louis sings, he does, and this time he manages not to butcher it like he did in _all_ of his dreams that he’d had for the week before auditions. He’s not brilliant, but he would’ve gotten two yeses at least, and probably would’ve made it fairly far into the competition. His voice starts out shaky, a little weak, but as he continues his voice builds in tone and structure and he hits all the right notes in the right places, and it’s spectacular, almost.

Harry is open-mouthed by the end, if only a slight part of his lips, but then he grins, big and dimply, and repeats Louis’ praise and chastise in a mocking tone before dropping back to his normal voice and telling Louis that he’s fantastic.

There’s a silence that is filled with everything Louis wants to do Harry and his pretty lips, nearly spilling over with tension, so Louis cracks a joke. That’s what he’s made for, right? “What if we got into that band, One Direction, with Zayn and Niall and Liam and Tom, we’d be better than them, hey? We’d smash them, even being in the same band.”

“Even if we were good enough to be in a band with those lads—I mean have you heard Zayn, Louis, he’s magic—it doesn’t matter because I’ve already got a band, like. Just, um, we’re called White Eskimo, so.”

At this Louis shrugs. “I’m in The Rogue but I’d ditch those dicks any day for cute little Niall.”

Harry laughs, a small giggle of sound, but then Gemma’s back. She’s more than a little tipsy now, which makes Louis wonder why he isn't drinking anything either (the bottle of cheap beer has grown warm in his hand). She isn't falling over or anything, just slightly wobbly on her feet, so she leans into Louis on the side Harry isn't standing and pushes her face into his neck.

“Louis, my boyfriend isn't here, why isn't he _here_? I’ve like, texted him, but he hasn’t replied. Will you kiss me at New Years? I don’t wanna be alone.”

“Gem, babe, I don’t even like girls. I’m not wasting my first kiss of the year on one of them sorry.”

She sighs and says, “Should’ve known you’d be kissing Haz, already, tosser, his very first kiss wasted on you.” Then she huffs and moves away, back to chatting with Claire’s twenty-something daughter.

Louis turns to Harry with his eyebrows raised. “First?”

“I work in a bakery, okay,” Harry states defensively, pouting his lip a little.

The most important thing to see here is that neither have said they aren’t kissing on New Years.

“One minute, guys!” Claire’s daughter shouts, and Gemma laughs and slaps a hand over her mouth. Maybe she’s found someone to kiss.

Louis looks away from the fire to look around at his sisters. They’re now jumping on the Styles’ old trampoline, giggling as they flail about with lit sparklers dangerously hovering above their heads and their arms fly. He shifts his eyes to Jay and Anne, who are laughing with Jay’s hand on Anne’s arm and eyes brighter than the fire; to Robin holding Anne’s hand on the other side of her, chatting to the cheater and Dan, a work friend. There’s Gemma with her hands pressed to her thighs as she giggles at something the daughter said.

And then his eyes flutter back to Harry, Harry with sweet pink cheeks and his bottle-green eyes reflecting the fire as he stares back at Louis. Louis smiles, shrugs, and lets his eyes flick to the sky.

There’s something flashing red and blue, nearly hidden amongst the stars, but Louis looks down just as the countdown begins.

Louis reaches out to grasp Harry’s hand.

Their fingers intertwine and their palms are pressed, flat and warm, together.

Louis tugs Harry’s hand closer to him, so Harry stumbles a step forward, and he’s flush against Louis’ front.

One of Louis’ sisters squeal, but Louis’ breath skims over Harry’s lips and the sound doesn’t matter, nothing really does.

There are fireworks now, lighting up the starry sky even further, a fair distance away but still pretty and colourful and _there_.

Jay tells her girls to be careful with the sparklers, though she’s so captivated by the fireworks and her best friend’s hand in hers that she doesn’t realise they’ve already gone out.

Harry’s eyelids flutter prettily and he’s only a breath away.

Louis mouths the word and his nose bumps Harry’s; the air is pulled from Harry’s lungs, Louis’ free hand rests on Harry’s hip.

A heartbeat away.

Louis breathes out, Harry breathes in, their lips are aligning, brushing, connecting. Harry and Louis share warmth, limbs, oxygen, carbon dioxide, hearts, _souls_. There are cheers in the background, but neither can hear over the matching beats of their hearts.

_Happy New Year!_

***

_An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn._

_The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night_

_is thinking. It’s thinking of love._

***

Saturday the 31st of December, 2011, and Louis finds himself at a New Year’s Eve party. He’s at Anne’s house, Anne being the very best friend of his mother, with only his family, Anne’s family, the neighbours Keith and Claire with their daughter and two sons, and his mother’s boyfriend Dan.

He could be at a different, much louder, exhilarating party getting pissed, but he thinks it’s quite a lot nicer to be here.

Anne’s dragged out the stereo and an old Beatles CD, had done so after dinner. The sky has grown darker quickly under the guise of winter, and is lit up with pretty stars, sparkling like diamonds against a navy blue velvet case in the shop window, but this is real and similes are not.

Louis’ sitting at the outdoor table, and he keeps stealing glances of a boy with curly hair and green-blue eyes. If he remembers correctly, this boy is Harry.

He hasn’t ever seen Harry before, but he thinks he might be Gemma’s brother. Gemma is one of Anne’s children, who lives just down the road from Louis and spent a lot of her time at the park, where he wasted his days after ‘ ** _The Accident_** ’. They grew close and Gemma seemed sad most of the time, but sometimes she smiled like the colour yellow, sunlight spilling past her teeth and staining Louis’ skin. Gemma said they were friends, before the accident, but as hard as he tries to remember, the first time he saw Gemma’s face was when it was wet with tears on the park swing, 2011.

The snow has been falling thickly the past few days, and Louis has been told Anne almost cancelled her New Year’s party—get together really—but since the snow has become unbearably light yesterday and today she was still able to hold it.

Louis’ wearing a green parka over a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He has thick, woollen socks on under his shoes, and he’s kind of freezing. There’s a fire going in a steel barrel not three metres away from him, but the boy who’s Gemma’s brother is standing by the barrel with his fingers twisted in his hair and Louis doesn’t know what would happen if he approached him.

Gemma comes into sight with a smile on her lips, but she’s smiling at the boy by the fire and the smile is sad. It must be Harry, because Gemma pulls him into a hug as soon as she’s close enough, mumbling something that looks like _don’t worry_.

The accident was on the 3rd of January this year, a drunk driver as any cliché goes. Louis’ mother had said the same thing to him, when he was in a hospital and her face was the only thing familiar to him, _don’t worry, lou, i’m sure you’ll remember everyone else in good time, all right? i love you, i’m so proud you woke up baby_.

Eleven months later and it was only his immediate family and his gran who he remembered. And his high school English teacher, but he isn't relevant anymore.

Gemma moves away from Harry with a peck to his cheek, coming over to sit by Louis.

“Hi, Lou,” she greets, a slight rasp catching the words before she coughs.

“Gem,” Louis nods.

She’s about to say something in response when Louis asks, “Is that your brother? By the fire?”

Gemma’s mouth closes and something in her eyes sink. “Yeah, yes. Harry, ‘s Harry.”

“How old is he?”

“Seventeen.”

“Is he sad?”

“…I, erm, no.”

Louis nods again. He takes a deep breath and stands up. Harry’s very pretty. He smiles down at Gemma, tipping his head towards Harry. “You don’t mind?”

It takes her a moment and then she coughs again, hand flying to her mouth. She coughs until she starts to wheeze, at which point Louis raises his eyebrows and moves forward to help her. She waves him away with a single hand movement, motioning to her younger brother with a thumbs up. Louis frowns but leaves Gemma to sort herself out because Gemma lied; Harry is sad.

When he plants his feet firmly on the ground next to Harry, he rubs at his cheeks to put some warmth into them, then he turns to the boy beside him. “Why are you sad?”

Harry blinks up at Louis, as if shocked to see him there, and then there’s a sharp sob coming from his mouth which he covers with the sleeve of his own parka. Harry shakes his head, swallowing a few times and wiping at his eyes which have spilled over with tears.

Louis reaches out and takes Harry’s spare gloved hand in his own. He wraps his fingers around Harry’s, which are longer, and doesn’t say a word. He remembers in the hospital, when he was furious that he couldn’t get past that fucking blank wall in his fucking brain to find out who he wasn’t fucking remembering, what he wasn’t fucking remembering, and he remembers the fucking doctors and nurses telling him not to scream, not to cry, not to get angry, and it felt like they were telling him not to fucking _breathe_.

So, he doesn’t say anything and lets Harry _breathe_.

A few, or maybe twenty, minutes later Harry inhales a shuddering breath, releasing it in the same way and watching the cold air take a transparent shape in front of his face. “Will you kiss me, at midnight?”

Louis wonders if this is what he was sad about, but it isn't his place to ask again. He nods though, because Harry is pretty and sad, and sad is ugly and he doesn’t think Harry is ugly. He just wants Harry to _feel_ pretty, that’s all.

Louis says he’ll be back, but he doesn’t come back soon. He goes to the bathroom, one he’s never used before, never seen before, but knew exactly where it would be without guidance. Louis goes to the bathroom and he fills one of two sinks with water, warm water, because he doesn’t want to get sick. He takes the parka off, setting it in the other sink, and pushes up his sleeves. He looks in the mirror and what he sees could probably be found if you searched _drained_ in the dictionary.

Louis pushes his hair back too, and then submerges his face into the sink full of water, and screams.

He learnt that in hospital, because in hospital if you don’t make any sounds you’re sick, if you make too much sound you’re a different kind of sick, if you make just the right amount then you should leave the fucking hospital. So, he wanted to leave the fucking hospital, and the only way to do that was to control the need to scream. Louis remembered reading in the newspaper—because he remembered useless things like these rather than people—that scientists had discovered new causes of stress and anxiety disorders and whatever else the thing said. And in the article it mentioned screaming in a sink full of water will not only dull the sound but it will release endorphins into the body and make you feel calmer.

Of course, the article was bullshit; he had to pretend he’d seen a spider and that’s why he’d screamed. But, he did feel better, so it was something he continued to do.

Right now though, in an unfamiliar bathroom, when he’s finished screaming, something clicks.

Something clicks and it doesn’t make Louis feel any better, the scream did fuck all, because something _clicked_ , and maybe it was a little voice in the very far corner of his head taunting him, mocking him, saying, “You’re the reason he’s sad, Louis, you’re the reason he’s not happy.”

Except Louis doesn’t know what the fucking click means, what the voice means, what it means when he shoves his head into a sink full of water and screams until his lungs burn. Is he supposed to be okay?

Louis leans against the sink, shirt getting wet with spilt water but he doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter. He waits for somebody to come but nobody does, and maybe there are thick walls.

Maybe not. This is the first time Louis’ actually been here, so he doesn’t know.

He unplugs the sink and watches the water go down the drain. He should be happy, shouldn’t he? He’s _alive_ , shouldn’t that make anyone happy? Oh well, he isn't, fuck happy, fuck it all; he’s going to kiss Harry at midnight then leave and never see him again, and depending how on how he feels he’ll either tell his mother he isn't feeling okay or he’ll write a note to her telling her he didn’t feel okay, and that he was sorry for ruining her life.

Louis shrugs back into his parka, ruffles and smooths his fringe in the mirror, and pretends to be okay, just for his mother, just for Anne and Gemma, just for the nice neighbours, just for Harry.

Just for Harry.

When midnight comes around—and it does and Louis is a little surprised, like he thought perhaps it wouldn’t—he takes Harry’s palms and presses them flat against his own cheeks, hands covering Harry’s. Harry looks scared, and Louis closes his eyes and brushes their lips together.

Harry tastes sweet, of caramel and pumpkin, and that’s all Louis notices before he pulls away.

He feels like there’s something clinging to his throat, holding on and grasping so tightly it creates a lump so it doesn’t have to drip off his tongue and fall into the air. He feels like maybe it’s _i’m sorry i fucked it up for you_ , and he doesn’t know why so he bites his tongue inside his mouth and swallows the lump away.

There are no fireworks this year, and when Louis eventually goes to sleep he dreams in shades of green.

***

_It’s thinking of stabbing us to death_

_and leaving our bodies in a dumpster._

_That’s a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone._

***

Sunday the 31st of December, 2012, and Louis finds himself at a New Year’s Eve party.

There’s probably not anywhere else he could be, really.

He’s at Anne’s house, because apparently it’s become a tradition for his family to spend New Year’s with the Styles’ and the Twists. He's dressed in a thick tan trench coat, wrapped firmly around his waist, and tight black jeans. His gloved hands are jammed into his pockets, a knitted burgundy beanie sitting atop his head and falling just over his side swept fringe. There are knitted socks on his feet, protected by his snow boots which crunch every time he walks.

They’re calling it ‘recurring amnesia’ in simple terms which means, in Louis’ case, that every year when he reaches the time of the fucking accident he forgets the past year, save a select few blurry memories. Louis remembers being in the same backyard at the end of last year, but he only remembers smiling at Robin when he brought Louis out a slice of pecan pie.

Louis doesn’t like pecan pie much.

He’s currently standing in the yard, the only person outside. He’s looking up at the sky, blinking at the darkness and the falling snow.

His mum calls him inside, so Louis sighs and accepts that he has to leave the solitude of outside. His boots snap a few twigs and ruin snow that has previously been untouched. When Louis reaches the back door his mum reappears and tells him to kick off his boots before actually stepping inside, and to take off his trench coat and shake it free of whatever has fallen on it. He rolls his eyes, rather petulantly, and does as he’s been told before stepping into the warmth of the unfamiliar home.

It look incredibly inviting, incredibly gorgeous; there are soft, warm tones of burgundy and cream and a dark chocolate sofa, a fireplace burning steadily and the tumbling sounds of a washing machine going.

Louis really only knows his family, here, and Robin due to the memory of pie. He doesn’t know who Anne is, has hidden away in his room enough to only bump into her once getting a glass of water in the kitchen, had stayed out of the way enough to only know her and Jay are good friends and that she’s two children, both with a similar age to him, though her boy is several years younger than him.

The two siblings who Louis doesn’t know the names of are snuggled together on the couch, the older girl with dyed blonde hair laughing at something falsely on her phone and the boy is staring at Louis. Louis knows that the girl is faking being amused, god has seen him do it enough this year, but he doesn’t know why the boy is staring.

Louis brings up a hand, to wave probably, but he finds it’s still holding his coat, so he sighs again and turns to hang it on the coat rack by the door. When he turns back around the boy is gone and the girl isn't smiling anymore. If anything, the latter fact makes Louis a little glad because they’re going into a new year soon, a new year with maybe a few memories of this one and being able to look forward to making more memories he won’t be able to hold onto, and he won’t be able to remember this.

 

Just take a second if you wouldn’t mind, take a second and think about this: You live nineteen years, perfectly fine, good, wonderful even, only a few non-major injuries throughout this period of time.

Are you feeling it yet?

It doesn’t matter, because you kiss someone on New Year’s Eve, someone you can picture kissing for the rest of your life. It’s okay to put anyone here, the person you love most or the person you want to love most. Just someone who would be able to give you that. If there isn't anyone make somebody up, this isn't about who’s real and who isn't; this is about imagination.

Are you there, still? Have you just kissed your favourite person, your new person? Good. Imagine falling in love with them, even more so or like this is the first time all over again, or if it is the first time, the only time, imagine falling so deeply in love with their eyes and their scent and their hair and the way they speak when they talk to you croaky-voiced in the morning.

Now, fast-forward through these months, pretend you’re in a movie and this is your glitch, your dark past that comes in hazy, quick flashes and doesn’t really provide much information until the end and you know the whole story. This is the whole story; you’re driving home from work, wherever you work, and you’re hit by a drunk driver. Your car collides with this person’s car; this person is taking away your whole life, literally. There are no hazy, quick flashes of your dark past here. There is time slowed down and barely existing and you barely exist and something’s bleeding and everything hurts but nothing does and there is nothing, _nothing_ that you can think of.

You see glimpses of your person, in your head. Their eyes, their scent, their hair, the way they talk to you croaky-voiced in the morning.

So, well; then there is nothing.

Take another second, so very quick this time, I promise. You wake up, you wake up and there's a stranger clutching your hand, your mother clutching your other, your father if you’d prefer. It doesn’t matter, not in the scheme of things, and you ask your mother or father where you are, what’s happening, who’s the person on the other side of the bed. And this, this is what we’re here for isn't it; focus on your hand against the pale, crinkling hospital sheets, focus on the pair of warm hands encompassing it, almost swallowing it if hands could swallow other hands.

Focus on that for me.

So you ask your parent who this person is, focus on the hands, and look up for a second, look into this person’s eyes, one’s that you’ve never seen before, watch the tears that had swelled there spill over, back to the hands, please. Watch the hands drop.

And then your life is in fast-forward again, you learn you’ve been in an accident and have amnesia and that of course your memories are still there they’re just hiding, silly things, hiding in a locked box that you have to open, except you don’t have the key! This is tedious, is it not, which is why we’re fast-forwarding again. Fast-forward past a year, not a year, only several months really but we’re pretending. It doesn’t matter. We fast-forward and it’s New Year’s and there they are, the person, your person, but you don’t know that they are your person. You only know they look beautiful. Slow down, now, pretty please. Take a breath. Take a second, I'm sorry I'm taking so many of your seconds, I'm sorry honestly. But take a moment, so you don’t drown in this all.

They’re sad; your, _this_ , person is sad. You’re sad too, but in a different way. Fast-forward, not as fast as you can but just in the way that you’re skipping past irrelevant moments, missing the words, and then pause. Pause, zoom, look at the moment; it’s midnight and there you are with your mouth on their mouth and, okay.

Let it go, because you’ll have to, and this is why you’re sad. You have to let it go, have to let them go, because you aren’t worth anything compared to them.

Skip several months, okay, we aren’t fast-forwarding we’re skipping because they don’t mean _anything_ , not really. You go to bed, you wake up, and you don’t remember the past year. You go to the doctor, the psychologist, psychiatrist, whoever. Your memories have run away to the little box, have unlocked it while you weren’t looking and jumped right in. There are a few that weren’t quick enough to get inside the box and they float.

Imagine living another year, knowing nothing but your family and gradually learning anything else important, but all the while knowing that you won’t _fucking remember any of it_. How does that feel?

I'm sorry I took so many seconds to get to this conclusion, I'm sorry it isn't a happy ending like I wish I could’ve promised.

Thank you for listening.

 

Louis blinks back a sigh. He’s so tired of living.

He goes to the kitchen, passing by his mother as he does. She grabs his waist and squeezes, and Louis leans to press his cheek in her hair and whisper, “Love you, mum.”

In the kitchen Louis makes himself a cup of tea, moving about the kitchen as though he’s lived there for years. He doesn’t have to guess where the mugs are, where the tea bags are, how to work the kettle, where the teaspoons are; he just flits around and takes. When he’s poured the splash of milk in, after the small bit of sugar, Louis leans back against the sink. He brings the steaming cup to his lips and blows delicately.

The boy walks in and begins to make himself a cup of tea, ginger tea if the smell is anything to go by, and Louis scrunches his nose but waits until he is noticed. He takes a sip of his tea, relishing the warmth it sends down his throat and spreads to the end of every limb. He sighs because he hasn’t had tea since this morning, the crappy brand too because they’d been in a rush shopping last time and had completely bypassed the tea, then had sent Daisy back down to get them tea and she couldn’t reach their favourite brand so had settled on the one closest to her chest.

This is what lets the boy know he is here. He flicks his eyes over to Louis in surprise, blinks several times then coughs against his arm and finishes making his tea. He moves over to Louis and Louis nudges himself over so there is room for the boy to lean beside him on the sink.

The boy radiates warmth, he’s almost like the sun.

Louis wonders if he tastes like the sun.

“I’m Harry,” he says, “Harry Styles. Anne’s son.”

His voice is a slow rumble, and it sends waves of something through Louis’ core. Louis licks his lips. “Louis Tomlinson, Jay’s son.”

Harry nods like he knew this; he probably did.

“Did you know me? Before?”

Harry is startled by the question, obviously, as his eyes widen a smidge and his mouth falls open a little. He raises his ginger tea to his lips, and nods fractionally. “We, um, the first time, the first accident, I mean. We were like, just, good friends.”

Louis is saddened by two things; one, he and Harry used to be friends and he doesn’t remember anything about him; two, something tells him that Harry’s lying. “Just good friends?”

Harry swallows, looking like he’s just had a fried grasshopper. “Yeah.”

And if Harry wants to lie, let him. Let him lie all he wants because Louis’ whole life seems like a lie with all the wrong memories that he’s been told by Jay and his sisters and his old friends, and if Harry wants to lie then he will temporarily become a solid part of Louis’ life. So, Louis inhales his tea and lets Harry lie. “Okay.”

Harry seems relieved.

When midnight arrives it’s spent in the living room again, with two of Louis’ sisters asleep on the ground and Gemma asleep on the couch, with Harry spread out on the carpet with Louis crumpled next to him, as though he’d fallen in a heap and decided to stay there. The other two of Louis’ sisters are watching the telly, the fireworks, eyes drooping from their positions on either side of Gemma on the sofa which is a dark, plush shade with cushions that may have been overstuffed once upon a time but now have indents, barely visible, in the seat. The adults are sipping wine and laughing, gently, at how this one seems to be different, how their children are different this year, how they’re different in the way that they all appear to be asleep or tired which they’ve never been since they were younger.

It doesn’t matter. Louis watches Harry blink at the ceiling as though it held every answer ever posed in humankind, but it obviously didn’t because Louis had flicked his eyes up and found nothing but a light which had been deemed irrelevant with the glow of the telly and the fire combining to make enough visible for the adults.

Harry’s tongue pokes out every few minutes to wet his lips, and he bites at the bottom lip occasionally. Louis wonders if it’s a nervous habit.

Only once do Harry’s green eyes glance Louis’ way, even though it’s obvious Louis’ watching Harry from his curled up position beside him. This happens as the fireworks on the t.v. go off with muted sounds in the relative dim glow of the room, when the clock ticks that second over and suddenly everything’s new, everything’s a first.

Louis’ first breath of 2013 is wasted; no, not wasted, not on Harry. Spent? Louis’ first breath of 2013 is given to Harry, settling in his relaxed curls, as Harry’s eyes flicker all over Louis’ face, looking for something _new_.

There is nothing new in Louis’ returning gaze.

There is hope in Harry’s, though, and Louis remembers in a sudden burst of memory; he remembers last year, or the year before really, remembers the click in the bathroom, the bathroom of this house, remembers being in the bathroom and having something slot very perfectly into place but it being maddening because there was nothing it slotted into.

Except this time there is, there is something it slots into. Another memory, faded but there, a few years ago, first New Year’s with the Styles’ and Twists, mouth pressing against someone warm and beautiful and glowing brighter than the fireworks.

Fingertips burning.

Louis’ eyes go so wide before he screws them shut and breathes. _In, out, in, out, in, out_ , he tells himself, the voice in his head which isn't his mumbling and shouting and barely rasping out the words. In the hospital, he was told that this wouldn’t help, that this method would cause him to rely on practically shutting down to feel safe within himself and burying whatever issue deep under the cotton of his mind. Understandable, obviously, but the only reason Louis closed his eyes and made himself breathe is because whenever he remembers something his pulse jumps and his pupils nearly swallow his irises and sometimes he forgets to breathe.

You would too should you remember something you had no prior knowledge of.

_i’m sorry i fucked it up for you_

Which, yeah.

***

Monday the 31st of December, 2013, and Louis finds himself at a New Year’s Eve party.

There’s no party this year.

He’s at Anne’s house, because apparently it’s become a tradition for his family to spend New Year’s with the Styles’ and the Twists. So, while he is not at his own home he still isn't at a party, it’s just him and Harry.

Because this year he met Harry Styles. Harry Styles is a gorgeous mess of growing hair and long legs and pretty, pretty green eyes. Louis can’t believe he's even allowed to _speak_ to such a beautiful being, let alone fall in love with him and receive love in return.

He lives just down the road from Louis, his mother and her new husband Dan are practically best friends with Harry’s parents, Anne and Robin. Louis was glad to learn this, and even though he has no prior memories of knowing Harry he feels like he doesn’t need any.

So, it’s Monday night, fifty-six minutes past 11pm. Harry is holding Louis’ hand and they’re inside on the sofa. Jay is at home, with everyone who should be there as well as Anne, Robin, Gemma and one of her friends, because she’s heavily pregnant with her second set of twins and they don’t want to risk going anywhere too far. (The furthest Jay’s gone is outside in the backyard to watch her other twins play in the snow.)

Louis knows it’s probably silly, ridiculous even, but this year he’s going to try and hold onto the memories, hold onto the feeling of being with Harry and his hair which is so stupid, his eyes which are so green in some lights and almost chocolate in others, his stupidly big feet and his stupidly large hands and gorgeously long fingers, the memories of those fingers trailing down his spine, inching into his arse, hitting his sweet spot, wrapped around his cock, in his mouth, carding through his hair, ghosting over the indents of his ribs, between Louis’ teeth, cradling a cup of tea, cradling _Louis_.

He wants to remember Harry.

As something happens, a loud sound, Harry arches his back and dips his neck, and Louis’ legs stretch out on the sofa so Harry slots perfectly between them. Harry’s hands, those stupid, dumb, beautiful works of art, press into the dips of Louis’ cheekbones and then his mouth, such a pretty mouth, is brushing against Louis’. Louis whines, soft in the back of his throat, so Harry shifts one leg forward so his knee is grazing over the crotch of Louis’ jeans.

They stumble into Harry’s old bedroom (he has his own flat now, even if it is damp and tiny), clothes dropping as they go. Harry reaches between the mattress to grab to lube he'd kept hidden there as a teen, pours some onto his fingers and opens Louis up. He stretches so prettily, hole fluttering when Harry slips his fingers out to lube hismself up.

Louis is a mess of pink skin and agonisingly erotic moans, whining; he's pushing out these squeezed breaths and little gasps, gasps of Harry’s name, and Harry can't think of anything more beautiful.

When he comes, he comes sooner than Louis is used to and with tears pooling in his eyes, because _Louis_ , Louis is his, finally, Louis is perfect and gorgeous and he’s amazing and Harry loves him so much it hurts and it’s hurting now. Harry pushes his face into Louis’ neck as he releases, lets his muscles unwind and lets the tears fall away with a hoarse shout. He licks his palm and jerks Louis off until he’s coming in thick spurts which land on Harry’s back and his own stomach, the sound of Harry’s name being cried out echoing through the empty house.

It’s a new year and they’ve spent it together, except this time they’re in love and there’s hope despite how dangerous it is that Louis will be able to remember, to keep the memories of the past year at least.

Hope is a dangerous thing, yes, but Louis isn't scared.

***

_Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife_

    _carves the likeness of his lover’s face into the motel wall. I like him_

_and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought._  



End file.
